


Nineteen Names

by Solrosfalt



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Children Are Killed In This One, Gen, Hi I'm Sol And I Write A Lot Of Archanea-Things, I Feel Terrible But It Happens, I did not write this fic to excuse Eremiya's actions, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It is like a character-study, Post-Possession, Pre-Possession, Self-Loathing, You Need To Be Aware, and a glimpse in who she might have been, this is for all you New Mystery Of The Emblem nerds (and by extension also for me)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrosfalt/pseuds/Solrosfalt
Summary: Ashes and copper-dust and blood and dirt and fire.---This is a take on Eremiya's | Eremiah's story, I could call it a retelling but we don't get that much in canon about her, so... My canon, now.Enjoy!





	Nineteen Names

**Author's Note:**

> Oh you know, here I go retelling things from Archanea again, with my own little interpretations. This game has so many amazing side-plots and side-characters and I love thinking about them. Although this one made me sad. Thanks to @Cowboy_Sneep_Dip and @detectiveroboryan for indulging me (I didn't need much convincing) to make this tragic canon-compliant-ish piece.
> 
> It's almost like I have a theme, or something.
> 
> Note: In the fan translations, she’s called Eremiah, but I go with Eremiya until we have an official translation. I had to pick one and flipped a coin so there we go.

There was something glaring about the drainpipe on the northwestern corner of her orphanage, Eremiya noticed after the storm had settled and she could – finally – venture outside. The pipe hung loosely on its fittings, dented edges where blunt roof tiles had hammered into it before they’d hit the ground.

Eremiya wasn’t much handy herself. It was something she could ask Annica to help her with – the girl was only thirteen, but her talent for fixing broken things was no less obvious.

 

Eremiya would have the drainpipe fixed soon, she decided. Although it was always difficult to think of anything to decide at all, with the noise of nineteen children up and about.

Two out of five three-year-olds had slipped in the wet grass and bawled their distress to the world (though only after checking that there was someone near enough to hear them). Added to that was the sensation of the infant stirring against Eremiya's arms, and the chatter of Livina’s new story ideas (inspired by the storm, no doubt), enthralling the small ones who were old enough to understand her particular imagination.

This story was about a giant, who only moved with the wind. Storms happened when this giant was in a hurry, like when he was late for a wedding or a dinner (which was, in Livina’s ten-year-old mind, the only reason to ever hurry). And as per usual, when she ended her story with a cross of her arms and a decisive nod of her head, there was the inevitable _what if_ ’s and _but_ ’s and _why_ ’s from her audience, accompanied by the pulling of her skirts and mud-covered hands on her apron.

Livina loved this. She beamed at the attention, grinned at the children as she indulged in more details about the giant ( _Yes, of course he has his hat tied under his chin— No, he’s NOT Macedonan— Sure!— I mean the wind god is probably not interested in him but you could think of it that way— Yeah, obviously he can swim, it’s windy on the ocean, silly!—_ ).

Livina wanted to be a travelling storyteller, one who got free meals at taverns for the exchange of a fancy story or juicy gossip and who was eventually sought after by the palaces of kings and queens. Said kings or queens would then adopt her into their family and she’d live happily ever after.

Most of Eremiya's children didn’t have such grand goals, but they had goals all the same.

Annica had passed on her childhood dream to become an “inventor”, and settled for “metal-smith and tailor”, which was all well because she undoubtedly had the deftness to become a master of two professions – all she needed now was to have a master recognize her and take her in. And, as was the case with Livina, the perfect end to it all would be to become adopted as well. It was the only childish dream she wasn’t able to leave behind.

That was all any of the children dreamed of. A part of their lives not even Eremiya, with all her care and heart, could fill completely. They had a roof (lacking in a few tiles, but who’s counting?), they had food (root vegetables more often than not, but they made for good porridges and roasts and no child complained), and they had enough rooms so they wouldn’t need to crowd (the orphanage could be mistaken for a run-down mansion, but it was more or less a bunch of lodges and extensions built on top and into each other).

They had all that, and each other, and Eremiya, but the dream of adoption remained, of course. Eremiya only wished she could fulfill that dream for them, too.

 

She did travel down into town sometimes, just to spread the word about there being children in need of homes, but she eventually didn’t want the word to spread _too_ far. And then, she didn't want it spread at all.

The towns-gossip was clear. War had come to the kingdom.

Untouchable Archanea, now engaged in ugly conflict with Gra, Macedon, Grust and Doluna. What if captains or soldiers saw fit to adopt one of Eremiya’s children, only to force them into their ranks so that they could have someone to take the first enemy spear for them?

 

Eremiya would rather die than see her children on the battlefields.

She kept them increasingly hidden. She listened to Livina’s stories of war and princesses and bravery, was there as Tim showed them a dance he’d made up and as Gret showed them how they’d “punch a guy” most effectively (Eremiya protested only a little, and shielded the youngest ones from that knowledge). She was there as Ada put her oven mitts on the table as the smell of cicely spread throughout the dining hall. She was there as Truls and Manis complained about not getting to walk too far into the woods. She was there when Kristina discovered her affinity for lightning-magic.

Eremiya was always, always there with them.

 

That didn’t matter when the soldiers came.

 

Eremiya had magic, but she couldn't fight. It was not something she used for other things than to heal scrapes and light the candles in the dining hall. Apparently, being able to switch so easily between earth and nature magic without much training was a rare gift. So her father had said. She’d never been big on the idea of travelling to Khadein, not after she’d been left at a clergy at seventeen after her father’s passing. She wouldn’t make a difference, learning of ways to channel her magic – but she would make a difference in caring for those who would not be cared for otherwise.

 

That didn’t matter when the knights tackled the doors open.

 

Gret was a talented child too, but not in magic. They were talented in being agile and strong, able to bend their body into climbing trees like a squirrel, yet also able to smash a fist through a wall.

Now, they dug an onion knife into the neck of a soldier who had his hands around Eremiya's throat. An onion knife wasn’t enough to kill, only to anger.  Agile, honest and valiant Gret died to a short sword, slicing through unarmored skin and bone.

 

None of their strengths and talents mattered when the slaughter began.

 

The soldiers had come to the orphanage because it looked like a mansion, because they wanted riches, and they wanted to destroy all signs of Archanean power – it was no use for Eremiya to cry, to beg, to try and convince them that Eremiya's home wasn’t anything special at all, she’d do anything for them to leave, this wasn’t necessary, this wasn’t necessary, this wasn’t—

It didn’t matter to the soldiers. A cleric and her orphans may be helpless, but they were Archaneans, and what did it matter if Archaneans perished now, or later?

 

Eremiya was surrounded by screams. By children with the same bawling faces as when they fell in the grass, but now they were speckled by blood and overturned food and they were not quieted by a hush and a gentle embrace, but by a kick to the chest—

Eremiya keeled over in her cries. She ran toward them, nearly tripping over Gret. The infant she still hadn’t named clutched tightly against her chest. She couldn’t clutch them all like that, she couldn’t run from the ochre of Dolunan armor, she couldn’t do anything at all as Livina’s wonderful storytelling voice was taken by the stroke of a sword and Annica’s deft hands lay unnaturally still on the floor.

Eremiya was useless as she threw herself against one of the soldier’s hard armor-plates. He didn’t budge even a little.

She was useless when they punished her for her resistance by grabbing her by the hair and kicking her to the floor to join her children. They tore the infant from her arms, threw him onto a pile of pots and pans. Eremiya gasped for breath and crawled after him, but she didn’t get anywhere at all. She was interrupted by the table that they kicked up over her with a ‘ _hop_ ’ and a laugh. It was a sport to them, killing her was _a sport_ —

The weight of a horse crashed down on her in the form of sturdy, soup-stained wood.

It dulled her ability to breathe. The soldiers’ feet drummed on the table, crushing her further. They used the table as a bridge as to not soil their feet, speaking amongst each other what they’d been able to fetch, and that they had _rinsed_ this place, and that they’d move on.

Then came the silence.

Then came the smoke.

 

\---

Eremiya was so useless, she couldn’t even die.

Her magic shielded her from the flames and the smog, kept her in a cocoon beneath the table as the faithful wood turned brittle from the heat.

The magic was strong enough to shield _her_ , but not to grow aggressive and turn on her enemies. Not strong enough to shield anyone else.

She crawled out of the ashes, the smoking table no longer heavy enough to hold her down. She dragged herself forward on her soot-covered arms.

 

The first place she looked was the pile of pots and pans.

There were no more walls. No more corners. Fuming supports and ash-covered ground were all that remained. And the pile of pots, and the polished stone of the fireplace.

Eremiya overturned some of the pots. Her hands trembled. She managed three or four rakes through the pile, before she bent down again and screamed until her throat crackled. Until her voice died down into scrapes and wheezes.

Every breath was ashes and copper-dust and blood and dirt and fire. Hatred burst out of her chest, bled into the ground in the form of sparks.

 

Death had failed her. Left her alone.

If she’d had any use at all, she would have sworn to wield her magic for strength. Finally take up the path her father had wanted for her, and become the nightmare that plagued those soldiers until their death.

If she had any use at all, she would have eradicated the taint of Dolunan colors from the world.

But she was useless in the ashes. She couldn’t even move.

 

She looked up when she realized she wasn’t alone. Someone had moved and cast a shadow over her face.

She stumbled up onto her knees, tried to call out the first name that came to mind, but her voice didn’t obey her.

_The Cellars_. Of course, the cellars must still remain unharmed by the flames – perhaps some of her children had hidden down there and escaped the soldiers scavenging eyes. If she could call a name, any name—

The shadow over her face returned, but this time it was someone right beside her. And it wasn’t a child, or even a human.

“This is… far better up close”, the creature purred. Eremiya glanced up into its face – it looked human-like, but its skin was a pale, pale gray and wrinkled in a way no old age or scars could accomplish.

Perhaps it was the god of death, deciding to take mercy on her after all.

“My children”, she croaked at the creature. A question, a prayer—

“Oh, they’re dead, obviously. Though… not you. Curious.” The creature grinned at her, showing her a perfect row of human teeth. “I could sense you as I passed by. My, my, I do enjoy the taste of strong magic in the air. And coupled with this…” It breathed through its nose, deeply, with what must be a content smile on its face. “It smells wonderful.”

That awakened Eremiya’s sense to the thick air around her. And all she smelled was the reek of what used to be alive, but _burnt, burnt_ —

She keeled over again, her hand meeting something sharp that cracked beneath her weight. She instinctively moved away, and looked down. It was a bone that had snapped underneath her. She froze. _Livina, Annica, Tim, Gret_ — Then came the realization of how _small_ it was, it had to be a toddl— _TRULS, MANIS, STEV, AEGI, VIR—_

Whatever had been inside her gut hurled out of her with the speed of a kick in her belly. She couldn’t stop it, didn’t see the use of doing so.

“Ah, you ruined it a little”, the death god muttered above her. “But the smell is the same – _despair. Hatred_. Oh yes, little wonder. That is what I sense in you.”

It crouched down before her. The bones snapped beneath its feet. Bile arose in Eremiya’s throat again, but then, all her bodily functions seemed to shut down when the death god pulled a shimmering sphere out of his robes.

 

It was darkness. _Gleaming_ darkness. It was an empty void and an object and beauty and fear.

Eremiya didn’t breathe. She was certain her heart wasn’t beating, either. Yet somehow, that didn’t matter. In front of this curious looking sphere, she still lived.

“I can offer you what you desire”, the death god said. “Power to slay your foes. Power to raise a new... coven.  A coven that can never be destroyed. You’d like that?”

Nineteen names swirled in her head. Nothing could ever replace them, but what of Doluna, what of them deserving justice for what they'd done? “I’d… Yes…”

“Hold the sphere in your hands, and that power will be yours.” The god reached the orb to her, and she took it. Without question.

“Wonderful”, the god purred on. “Straight to the point, aren’t you? You answer to me, now.”

Eremiya’s bones burned inside her body, dark flames moved inside her arms. Her soul screeched in agony, even though she herself didn’t move and didn’t make a sound. Half of her mind blackened like the soot on her arms. The rest was purged by the same flame that was in her bones.

 

She was Eremiya, and she would raise strong children.

She was power. Fire. Vengeance.

“Ah, and don’t forget to call me _‘Lord Gharnef_ ’”, the death god said, and it became her last, true memory. “I am very fond of that name, you see.”

Then the last true memory burned in the purging dark flames, along with everything else.

 

\---

 

Eremiya noticed that the drainpipe on one of the town’s houses was dented. A sudden thought appeared within her – _I’ll let Annica have a look at that_.

A white, hot flame burned down a scream she didn’t understand.

She was Eremiya, and she would raise strong children.

She was power. Fire. Vengeance.

 

She went about her day. It was nothing unusual, the feeling of flames in her mind.

 

 

\---

 

Eremiya bled into the grass. Nineteen names swirled in her head, for the first time in… In…

“What happened to greeting me with ‘ _Lord Gharnef_ ’, puppet?”

Eremiya wheezed a breath. “W—who…?”

“Hmm”, the speaker said. “Seems like the curse can’t hold on when you die. It uses life, so that makes sense, puppet.”

Eremiya wheezed again.

“Don’t worry. You failed me, but I’ll stay with you. Your pain will be entertaining, and you won’t die alone. Consider that a kindness, perhaps?”

 

Why was she bleeding so, anyway? The last thing she remembered was the ashes, the bone breaking beneath her hand… She wasn’t there, anymore. She recognized some of the trees and the shape of the road… It was… It _was_ home. But instead of ashes, the building had returned, in the shape of a small cottage with the door ajar, leading right down into the cellars. That was… All wrong.

The pain in her chest was unbearable. Why… Why was it there?

 _Clarisse_. She remembered a heart-shaped face and blond curls, crying as a toddler did – something that always melted Eremiya’s heart. But the rest of her memory was distorted. There was a pole of wood in her own hand, beating down on the shoulders of this child. “ _SHUT UP_ ”, she remembered herself yell.

That wasn’t true, it _couldn’t_ be true, Eremiya’s hands and voice would never act so cruelly—

 

The pain spread, and she was cold.

 

With every wheeze came images and voices, of children lined up in rows down in the darkness of the cellar. Their eyes empty. Some trembled in fear, some bowed their heads, some cried – until Eremiya’s hand slapped across their faces.

Images of stone cold death before her, of leaving the child with the heart-shaped face to die in the snow, of her well-trained children hitting against the army led by a man in blue, and dropping like flies. One was crushed by a wyvern, another stabbed through the heart from a lance, and yet another burned to death by one of Eremiya’s own.

She had violet hair, much like Eremiya’s. Eyes that Eremiya remembered as soft and trembling, now set upon her with steel. “ _A junk puppet talking like a human being?_ ” Eremiya’s voice greeted the girl. “ _The only word you're ever allowed to say is ‘yes’. I'll make sure that mouth of yours starts working properly right away._ ”

No, what was all this? Surely it wasn’t the truth – who was this woman with her memories and her hands and her voice—?

 

“As I expected”, hissed the shadow hovering beside her. “Quite entertaining. You see, you got what you wanted. The power to slay your foes, and the ability to raise strong, strong children. So strong. Aren’t you proud?”

Rows and rows and rows of children, bent and broken and afraid… Afraid of _her_.

“N-no—“ She let out a sob from her cold, cold throat. But there was fire left in her despite that. She amassed it, aimed it with a trembling fist at the shadow before she released it.

The shadow burned for a moment, then it recovered, easy as breathing. “Oh? That’s funny. As if you could kill me. Now, please die already. I have other things to attend to.”

 

Nineteen names swished around in her head, accompanied by the faces they belonged to. Their faces as they were, the day she found them. As they were, the day she’d failed them.

A hundred other names came next, with faces twisting in fear, and dying in fear, all of it ended with the violet-haired girl before Eremiya on the battlefield. Furious. Free.

_Katarina._

 

She was the only child not there when Eremiya’s mind turned to the _somewhere_ all mortal things go.

The rest of the children… They were all there, a mass of all shapes and sizes.

But Eremiya could not determine if their faces were turned toward her, or turned away. Not before darkness engulfed her again.


End file.
